Hot's First Year. Episode 2.

Mum stopped the car, and took my suitcases out of the boot. She wheeled them over to the line of girls for me.
“Now, you have a nice term, won’t you, and I’ll see you at Christmas. Bye!”
“Bye!” I called after her as she drove off.
One of the girls up ahead was already talking loudly to anyone who’d listen. She had long wild hair pulled into two bunches, with her two horns poking out either side. The horns were orange. “…My parents wanted to send me to Miss Goatleg’s Academy, it’s not that they’re too expensive, we can afford them but they turn their students snobby. And I certainly don’t want to be snobby…”
“She’s sounds snobby enough to me,” I said out loud.
The girl in front of me turned around. She also had blonde hair. But she had a red headband wrapped around it so I couldn’t see if her horns were orange as well. The headband had silver glittery stars all over it.
“Don’t worry about her, I had to survive primary school with her.” She smiled a friendly smile. “I’m Red Star. I know, I know, it’s a stupid name. But my parents got this headband when I was born because I suffer from Crumbling Horn. And they got the name from the headband.”
“I think it’s a pretty name,” I smiled back. “My name’s Hot.”
“Wow! Now that is a pretty name!” Red Star exclaimed. “And I like your hair, it’s pink without being too pink. Is it natural or dyed?”
“Natural,” I answered, tugging at my pink hair.
Just then, the doors opened. A woman with long flowing blonde hair poked her head out.
“Would the first-years please like to step inside now?” She asked, with a pleasant grin.
Red Star grimaced at me. We all picked up our suitcases and followed the woman inside.
We followed the blonde woman through the gates and into the building. I had time to nose around before we went inside. We were in some kind of yard. The ground was stone-flagged, and it reminded me of a yard in someone’s back garden.
As we entered the building, the corridor that greeted us was very warm and inviting. It certainly made me feel excited to be here. The walls were yellow, and had photographs all over them of all sorts of different women. Some had brown hair, some blonde. Several had red hair, the colour of tomato ketchup. One thing was clear though, they were all devils.
“Please, Miss, are all these women past headmistresses?” Someone in the line asked, nervously.
“Some are,” our host answered. “Some are our top students.”
She led us through a door, through which was a big room, with lots of chairs and a stage.